


Where But to Think

by lanri



Series: Unseen [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blindness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season 2, Unseen 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:51:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-is to be full of sorrow.”-Keats. post IMTOD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where But to Think

Sam drifted, aimless. Rough splinters under his hand as he ran his hand across the wall. Bobby’s house had always been sharp corners and messy living; normally, Dean was a second shadow, ensuring Sam wouldn’t hurt himself.

But Dean was the one hurting now. Sam swallowed, making his way down into the kitchen. Dean would be thirsty.

Beer in one hand, cane in the other, Sam tapped his way out into the heat from the sunshine. South Dakota was never boiling like some summers they had spent in the South, but it was hot enough that Sam wished he had taken off his outer layer. Hands full, though, that wasn’t an option.

“Dean?” he tried. The Impala was in front of him, he thought.

There was no vocal response Sam could hear, and he could hear rather well compared to most people. The clanking sound from low on the ground never stopped. Dean was probably under the car.

Sam’s cane finally caught the edge of the car, and relieved, Sam tucked his cane under his arm and used the Impala to guide himself instead.

“Dean, I got you a beer.”

“Just set it down.” Dean’s voice was rough and short. If Sam didn’t know better, he would think that Dean was angry with him.

But he knew better.

“Anything I can help with?”

“No.”

“Okay, man.” Sam set the beer on the ground uncertainly, using the car to help himself up and wincing when a jagged bit of metal caught at his hand. Good thing their tetanus shots were always up to date.

The way that Dean insisted on continuing to work on the Impala told Sam his presence was unwanted. Sam set off, past the Impala. It wasn’t often he let himself walk without knowing where he was going, but, well, if Dean got to grieve, shouldn’t Sam get to? Besides, it seemed like an appropriate analogy, wandering directionless. For a year, their goal had been to find Dad. Now, all they had were his ashes and more questions.

The dust turned to something thicker, probably grass.

“I miss you, Dad,” Sam murmured to the air, surprised when he realized it was true. As much as he hated his dad sometimes, he had never wished him dead. Not to mention he hadn’t gotten to say goodbye. Or apologize. And it was all his fault.

Sam choked back a sob and sank down onto the grass, sitting there for a long time.

It occurred to him belatedly that he had no weapon. Sitting duck. Suicidal, even, and Sam blanched at the thought. He couldn’t leave Dean, not now. He may still be a burden, but Dean had proved time and time again that he liked having Sam as a burden . . . it gave him purpose, in a backwards kind of way.

Sam didn’t get it, but at this fragile stage, he was far from questioning it.

Turning a 180, Sam made his way back at a swift clip. Swift enough that his foot collided with a tire, sending him sprawling.

He swore, getting to his feet unsteadily and limping the rest of the way back. Thank goodness Dean was noisy, working on the Impala. He skirted around the back so that he wouldn’t have to pass him.

“Sam, boy, where you been?” Bobby took his left elbow—the wrong one—and led him into the house.

“Walking,” Sam mumbled.

“Well, dinner’s on the table. I need to head out on that hunt, okay?”

“Did Dean eat?” Sam asked hopefully.

Bobby sighed heavily. “No.”

Bobby left him at the table, and Sam waited for his heavy tread to leave the house before he got up again. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t eat after Jess, too, but eating now, when Dean wasn’t, seemed somehow worse.

Sam crept up to his room, easing his guitar out from under his bed. Thankfully it survived the crash.

He let himself go. Washed away in the chords and music so he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to get lost in despair. He had to stay strong. Stay strong for Dean.

* * *

Dean absently took a swig of his beer, giving the Impala another look. Not pretty, but she was coming along.

“Dean? I’m heading to the hunt I told you about.”

He nodded vaguely in Bobby’s direction and focused on the side door. It was a little off-kilter, he would fix that next.

“Dean, you should get some dinner. Make sure Sam eats.”

Dean twitched, irritated that Bobby had broken the unspoken rule of no comments that needed answering.

“Sam can take care of himself,” he said, surprised at how gruff his voice sounded.

“Which is why he was gone the whole day and came back looking like a lost puppy,” Bobby said wryly.

Dean gave the older man a sharp look. “So what, you want me to talk to him?”

“Son, you can’t grieve forever, you’re going to have to . . .”

“Don’t call me son,” Dean snarled.

Bobby’s face shut down. “Right.” He turned and stomped out to his truck. Dean swallowed, forcing back another wave of guilt. It was easier to turn back to the Impala than to let himself think.

He worked until dark. Only then did he let himself enter the house, hoping that he wouldn’t have to run across Sam, coward that he was.

Dean crept past the kitchen, noticing two untouched plates and getting another unwelcome surge of guilt. He had enough of that, feeling responsible for his dad’s death. Figured that somehow, Sam could still add to that.

The rush of bitterness that welled up was outweighed by complete exhaustion. He didn’t really want to share a bedroom with Sam tonight, but his things were up in the room.

The sight that greeted him was . . . unexpected. Sam was curled up on the floor, one hand on his guitar. Probably had dropped off to sleep while playing, and for the first time since he had woken up in the hospital, Dean felt a surge of warmth in his chest.

Not tiptoeing—because Dean Winchester did not tiptoe—but walking softly, Dean knelt next to Sam. Here was something he could do. He couldn’t talk with Sam, not yet, but at least he could take care of him this way.

Easing the guitar out from under Sam’s hand, he dragged Sam’s limbs into a manageable position. Scooping up Sam was a little too easy, and Dean realized with a frown that Sam was lighter than he had been a couple weeks ago. Sam always did lose weight far too easy, beanpole that he was. After Jess, it was all Dean could do to get him to eat. Of course, it wasn’t like Dean had been keeping track now. Too lost in his own grief.

Sam mumbled something into Dean’s neck, and Dean allowed himself to hold him, just for a second. How screwed up was it that he could hug Sam when he was asleep but couldn’t even offer him an arm to guide him when he was awake.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.” He settled Sam down on his bed, only to be snagged by Sam’s arm around his neck.

“Dean?” Sam mumbled. His milky eyes were cracked open. Dean never knew why he actually opened his eyes, since they didn’t work at all.

“Go to sleep, Sam.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam breathed, sinking deeper into sleep. Dean swallowed, carefully removing Sam’s arm. For a few minutes, he stood in the dark, lost in thought and pain.

With a sigh—he had been doing that a lot, lately—Dean turned away, picking up Sam’s guitar.

“What the—?” Dean rubbed at the instrument’s lacquered surface, and the dark streaks rubbed off.

Red. Blood.

“Sam.” Dean shook him. “Sam, wake up.”

* * *

One second he was watching Jess burning, the next he was being shaken, disoriented and terrified. Sam lashed out, catching his attacker in the jaw.

“Sam!”

Sam scrambled back. “Dean?” he asked, bewildered. “What . . . what are you doing?”

“I . . .” Dean’s voice cut off and Sam froze. He couldn’t scare his brother off, not now. “Your guitar, it has blood on it.”

Bewildered, Sam automatically felt around for his instrument. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A hand landed on his forearm, and Sam automatically flinched, unsure whether to expect a blow or not.

“There’s a cut on your hand.”

Sam’s arm was twisted over so his palm lay flat. Sam didn’t move a muscle, for fear of chasing Dean away.

“This is nasty. Let’s get it cleaned out, alright?”

Unresisting, Sam let himself be tugged upright and across the floor. Too tired to count his steps, he tripped at the threshold.

But Dean caught him.

“Let’s try not to give you a busted nose as well, okay?” he said. Miracles upon miracles, there was actually amusement in his voice.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled.

“Don’t apologize yet.” Dean splashed his hand with some kind of antiseptic that stung terribly. Hissing, Sam tried to draw back his hand, but Dean kept a firm grip on his wrist.

As Dean wrapped his hand, Sam bit his lip, unsure of what to say. “I’ve got it, Dean,” he said, pulling away his hand. “You can go to bed.”

There was a pregnant silence, and Sam felt Dean’s presence move away. Out of nowhere, he had to stifle a sob.

“C’mon, Sammy.”

Dean hadn’t called him Sammy since before the crash. Dean’s arms encircled him, simply for the purpose of lifting him from the toilet seat and Sam allowed himself for one moment to lean into his brother, forehead against his shoulder, before standing on his own. He couldn’t add to Dean’s burden, not now.

“Go to sleep.”

“Dean,” Sam said, almost without meaning to.

“Yeah?”

“I . . .” Sam floundered in a search for words. “Sit here? Just for a minute.”

“Sam . . .” Reluctance dripped from Dean’s voice and Sam winced.

“I won’t say anything. Promise. Just need . . . want you to be here. Just for a minute.”

Dean didn’t say anything, and Sam could feel embarrassment rising as he fidgeted on the bed.

The equilibrium of the mattress changed as Dean sank down, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out, slowly, in case Dean wanted to avoid him, and wrapped his hand around Dean’s forearm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered once again.

Dean actually spoke. “Don’t be,” he said gruffly. Sam didn’t bother responding, just held on a little tighter. As he drifted closer to sleep, he thought he felt Dean’s hand on his forehead, and relaxed even more. Everything would be okay. He hadn’t lost Dean yet.


End file.
